


its now or never

by cosmicbees



Series: its now or never [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Angst, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, come get your heartache, that's right kids its got it all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-22 22:55:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16606994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicbees/pseuds/cosmicbees
Summary: Cape Cod, MassachusettsAugust, 1981Takashi Shirogane has never kissed a boy before.Keith remembers this fact only after Shiro presses his back into sand, still sun-warm. His lips are dry, rough, hungry against Keith’s own. They taste of salt, from the ocean, and sunlight, and when Shiro bites his way into his mouth, he tastes of the cotton candy that Keith had bought him from the wharf earlier that afternoon.But Takashi Shirogane has never kissed a boy before.





	its now or never

**Author's Note:**

> a gift for hannah. you can find her on [tumblr](http://hnamvs.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/bananuh_). 
> 
> title from, and work deeply inspired by vampire weekend's song [diplomat's son](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5KpjR4iurWw)

**_Cape Cod, Massachusetts_ **

**_August, 1981_ **

  


Takashi Shirogane has never kissed a boy before.

Keith remembers this fact only after Shiro presses his back into sand, still sun-warm. His lips are dry, rough, _hungry_ against Keith’s own. They taste of salt, from the ocean, and sunlight, and when Shiro bites his way into his mouth, he tastes of the cotton candy that Keith had bought him from the wharf earlier that afternoon.

But Takashi Shirogane has never kissed a boy before.

 

***

 

Takashi Shirogane is hardly nineteen years old, made up of broad smiles and broad shoulders, and a tuft of jet black hair that settles haphazardly across his forehead. It bounces when he laughs, falling into sea-grey eyes. He is bright, and brilliant, and the son of Japanese diplomat Haruto Shirogane, who sent him to the coast to spend the summer with his mother.

Shiro arrived in Cape Cod in late May with a suitcase in one hand, and a shiny new 35 millimeter camera in the other. On his first afternoon he took a shine to a scrawny little busboy at the seaside restaurant he and his mother were eating at, and it took him no time at all to wheedle his way into Keith’s life. Within a week he’d managed to wrangle Keith into going to the arcade with him, and had shown up dressed in a crisp, blue button up and pressed navy trousers; Keith let out an ugly laugh, snorting into the blue icee in his hand until it came out through his nose.

A summer spent in sun and surf and dimly lit arcades with the boy has taught Keith one thing: there are a lot of things that Takashi Shirogane has never done.

 

***

 

“I’ve never had a nickname,” he shrugs when Keith asks him if he could use one, in lieu of his full name, “my father always said it wasn’t proper.”

Keith laughs, “Do you really care what your old man thinks?”

“Well,” Shiro looks thoughtful for a moment, before cocking his head, “no.”

“Shiro it is, then.”

 

***

 

Shiro has never gone swimming in the ocean, before, until Keith drags him into the surf early one morning, still fully clothed and laughing as the sun peeks over the horizon.

He protests, halfheartedly trying to pull out of Keith’s grip, “I’m wearing pants!”

“You can take them off, if you’d like!” Keith offers, tightening his hand around Shiro’s wrist and tugging him in deeper, so that the waves lap at his waist. “We can go skinny dipping.”

Shiro grows stiff under his touch, but shakes his head, “this is fine.”

Keith takes another step, deeper still, “well, come on, then.”

 

***

 

Late one night, long after Keith has gotten off of work, Shiro meets him at the end of the dock, where his legs are swinging in the empty space between wood and water. Keith smiles up at him, hazy, and holds out a something small, glowing orange on one end.

Shiro wrinkles his nose at the smell when it hits his senses, pungent and sharp, and scolds, “that’s not a cigarette.”

“Sure isn’t,” Keith smiles as Shiro settles down on the edge of the platform, and bumps his shoulder against Keith’s, letting the silence wash over them for a minute. Keith examines the little joint in his fingers before he speaks again, “you ever smoked weed before?”

“No,” Shiro admits quietly, leaning in so that he’s pressed closer to Keith, their thighs touching in a long line.

“Do you wanna?”

Shiro shrugs, takes Keith’s offering and holds it up to his mouth, eyes shooting to Keith’s in questions.

“You just suck,” Keith explains, “breathe it in.”

Shiro blinks, does as he is told, and the burn that settles into his throat sends him into a coughing fit. He double over on himself, trying to hold back the smoke that spills from his lungs, and somewhere along the line, drops Keith’s joint into the ocean below.

Keith laughs until he cries, and Shiro shoves him into the water, alongside his joint, in a fit of pique.

 

***

 

Keith scrubs a tired hand across his face, “they’re just pants!”

Shiro’s head pokes out from behind the changing room curtain, brows furrowed, “they’re very short.”

“That’s the _point_. I can’t believe you’ve never worn shorts before.”

“What if,” Shiro’s lip juts out in a pout, “what if...I fall out.”

“What if you…what?” A moment passes, and then understanding floods through Keith’s body, “what if your dick falls out?”

Shiro steps out, finally, and crosses the room to push on Keith’s shoulder, “It’s not funny!”

There’s a second, however brief, where Keith eyes Shiro appraisingly, before he speaks again, “your dick won’t fall out, Shiro.”

“You can’t know that!” Shiro huffs, tuning on his heel.

“Yeah,” Keith says, lunging forward to slap Shiro’s ass as he retreats back into the dressing room, “I can, buddy. Those are so tight that your dick won’t move an inch.”

Shiro flushes bright pink, all the way down to where his tank top covers his chest, and squeaks out a protest that Keith can’t understand.

It takes him longer than it should to change back into his slacks, but he buys the shorts anyway.

 

***

 

“She’s pretty,” Keith comments, nodding his head towards the ferris wheel attendant. She’s blonde, and busty, and has her eyes fixed to Shiro, following him as he ascends the platform to the ride.

Shiro hums an acknowledgement but shrugs, letting Keith plop himself down into the narrow ferris wheel seat before settling in beside him.

“Not your type.” It’s not so much a question as it is a statement, and Keith is acutely aware of the tension in Shiro’s body where they’re pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh in the tiny seat.

Shiro breathes a response, “no.”

The ferris wheel lurches beneath them, carrying them up and around, as another pair clambers into another chair. Keith pulls his left arm from where it is wedged between the two of them, and drapes it along the backrest, “what _is_ your type?”

“Not girls.” The ferris wheel moves again.

“No?” Keith asks, gentle, reaching up with his right hand to tug on Shiro’s bangs, where they’ve gotten too long, “me neither.”

Shiro lets out a breath through his teeth in a little puff that might be a laugh, and leans in to rest his head on Keith’s shoulder. His voice is small, “have you ever kissed a boy before?”

“Yeah,” Keith nods, moving his arm down so that it’s wrapped around Shiro’s shoulders, tugging him in closer, “have you?”

“No.” Another jerky movement, and they’re settled on the uppermost part of the ferris wheel, overlooking the wharf and the sparkling lights of the town below them. Somewhere off in the distance, there are fireworks, glittering on the horizon, remnants from the Fourth of July.

 Keith turns so that his mouth is pressed against the crown of Shiro’s head, words muffled into dark hair when he speaks next.

“That’s okay.”

 

***

 

It’s well after sunset when Keith finds Shiro on the beach, planted into warm sand, with his knees pulled up to his chest. There is a discarded, half-eaten bag of cotton candy that Keith had given him earlier in the day resting in the sand, and he’s got one arm wrapped around his calves. Without looking up, he uses the other hand to pat the empty space beside him. It’s an invitation that fills Keith’s entire body with a sunshiney fondness, all the way to the tips of his fingers.

He sits down next to Shiro, kicking off his shoes and stretching his legs out in front of him, stretching until the tips of his toes are pointed straight, due north to the sea. He likes it best like this, quiet and comfortable in soft moonlight.

“You’re wearing your shorts,” Keith smiles, reaching out to tug on the hem of them.

“Yeah.” When he answers, Shiro keeps his eyes fixed to a spot somewhere past the water.

“They look good on you, y’know. You should wear them mo--”

Keith is cut off by Shiro speaking suddenly, “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“You’re what?” Keith shakes his head, “I thought you said school didn’t start for another month!”

“It doesn’t,” Shiro sighs, “but my mother thinks I’ve been hanging out with a bad lot, here. Father agrees.”

Something bitter and angry bubbles out of Keith’s throat, “It’s me, isn’t it?”

Shiro doesn’t respond, but his silence is answer enough--the confirmation that Keith didn’t really want in the first place. Waves lap at the shore, repetitive, consistent, and the sound lulls Keith’s anger into quiet resignation, sadness weighing his limbs down, instead. He lets his hand inch towards Shiro’s on the sand, slowly, until he’s able to wrap Shiro’s hand in his own, fingers laced together.

“I don’t want to go,” Shiro says, and his gaze is glued to the ocean again.

“I don’t want you to go, either,” Keith sighs, trying to find the spot on the horizon that Shiro is fixated upon, and squeezing Shiro’s hand in his own, murmurs, “you’re my best friend.”

The moonlight on the waves doesn’t offer a solution, though, and no matter how hard Keith stares, or however many times he tries to blink back the tears in his eyes, he can’t hold them back once they begin to fall. He uses his free hand to wipe desperately at them, hoping Shiro won’t notice.

“Please don’t cry,” Shiro pleads, leaning in closer to Keith, and holds their intertwined hands to his chest, “I’m sorry, Keith.”

“It’s not your fault,” Keith says, but the words are acrid on his tongue. They taste like a lie, “it’s just not fair.”

Shiro tugs Keith in at that, releasing his grip on Keith’s hand, and wrapping his arms around him instead. He positions his knees on either side of Keith’s outstretched legs, and pulls him in close, one hand on Keith’s shoulder blades, and the other low on his back.

There’s a distant sound of seagulls, somewhere else, and Keith is vaguely aware of the chill of the the mid-august night, but Shiro lists back after a moment, swipes his thumbs at the tears under Keith’s eyes, and something _clicks_ in that moment. Keith leans up, presses his mouth to Shiro’s, and tries not to think too hard of the way that Shiro’s eyes grow impossibly wide before they flutter shut.

When Shiro tangles one hand in the back of Keith’s hair, and pushes him down, flat on his back in the warm, white sands of the Cape Cod summer beach, Keith realizes one thing:

Takashi Shirogane has never kissed a boy before, but he kisses like he has.

His mouth is soft, and syrupy sweet like the forgotten cotton candy in the sand beside them, but the salt on his lips from the ocean spray keeps Keith grounded when his tongue dips into Keith’s mouth, filthy and _perfect._ A hand trails down Keith’s chest, settling against his hip and squeezing just hard enough to draw a gasp from his throat, and Shiro pulls back, concern in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Keith. I didn’t mean to--”

Keith lunges back up, crushing their mouths together again, and uses the momentum to flip Shiro onto his back, laughing at the way his breath wheezes from his lungs when he collides with the earth. He leans in, nipping at Shiro’s bottom lip before trailing a series of wet, little kisses across Shiro’s jaw and down the column of his throat.

Shiro drops his head back into the sand, letting his eyes drift open, and reaches out to brush Keith’s hair out of his eyes. It’s easy, Keith realizes, natural, and right, and good, and Keith smiles as he repositions himself, wedging a thigh between Shiro’s own, before moving back up to kiss him again. The slick drag of Shiro’s tongue against his own is intoxicating, warm and wet and when Shiro rocks his hips up, pressing himself against Keith’s thigh, the hitch of his breath is unmistakable as it pulls air from Keith’s mouth.

Keith bears down on him, then, pressing in closer until Shiro barely has to cant his hips up to find friction. Shiro slips a hand past the waistband of his pants, and cups the swell of Keith’s ass with his palm. “Shiro,” he mutters, “not here.”

Shiro hums an apology, withdraws his hand, and looks at Keith, desire writ clear across his face. He shifts to push himself against Keith’s thigh again, and he’s hard, pressed against Keith as he sighs, “please.”

“Can I?” Keith asks, sitting up, and spreading a hand across Shiro’s chest, pushing him back into the sand, “God, Shiro, can I take you home tonight?”

A beat.

“Of course.”

 

***

 

Keith lives about a mile from the coast, in a little, rundown efficiency apartment--one room with a bed and an old television that sit catty-corner to his kitchen. The first time Shiro had ever come over, he’d whistled, low.

“It’s not much,” Keith had murmured, suddenly self-conscious as he looked down at Shiro’s well-pressed dress pants.

Shiro had turned on him with a blinding smile, so genuine that it made Keith’s face ache in sympathy, “I like it. It’s simple...nice.”

Tonight they take the long way home, passing a joint between the two of them that Keith pulls from his pocket after a few blocks. They take turns until it has been whittled down to nearly nothing, and Keith reaches out to hold Shiro’s hand, swinging their arms back and forth through the night air. Shiro giggles into the back of Keith’s hand when he pulls it up to his mouth for a kiss, teeth scraping over the skin there.

That makes Keith’s heart ache for just long enough that he remembers what they’re doing.

The two of them take a stopover at the little twenty-four hour supermarket across from Keith’s apartment building. Keith laughs his way into the aisle labeled ‘ **_Family Planning_ **,’ with Shiro trailing nervously behind him, and, swiping a tube of KY Jelly from the shelf, he turns to find Shiro standing motionless in front of a shelf of condoms.

“Do you want me to fuck you, baby?” He mutters, leaning in close to press his lips to a spot behind Shiro’s ear, “or do you want to fuck me?”

Crimson red burns across Shiro’s face, and he shakes his head before answering, “I wanted you to...you know.”

“Yeah,” Keith sighs, and reaches up to turn Shiro’s face to him, guiding him in close for a quick kiss, “I can do that.”

 

***

 

“Are you sure about this?” Keith asks, pressing his lips to the inside of Shiro’s knee where it is hooked over his shoulder, “You’re shaking, babe.”

Shiro squeezes his eyes shut, nods, and then blinks them open again. In the dim moonlight, filtering in through sheer curtains, and the black and white fuzz on the television screen, Keith can just make out the bob of Shiro’s throat as he swallows. His lips are puffy, kiss-bitten red and soft, and the scarlet flush of his face has migrated, overtaking his chest, and moving down, down, following the trail of dark hair down between his thighs.  

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

The two of them are sprawled out across Keith’s bed. Shiro is laid out flat on his back, and Keith has one of his legs thrown over his shoulder, while the other has been pushed aside, leaving Shiro open, vulnerable to Keith’s touch.

“I will,” Shiro promises, nodding again.

Keith leans in then, lips pressing a messy kiss to Shiro’s inner thigh as he works a fingertip, coated in lube around Shiro’s rim, taking only a moment to tease before he’s pressing the finger in entirely. Shiro’s little gasp turns into a sigh within a moment, though, and after a moment he is wriggling under Keith’s touch.

“More,” he breathes, “please.”

Keith obliges, mouthing lazily at Shiro’s length when he adds another finger, slick and sure. He stretches him open methodically, with gentle hands and time, until he’s three fingers deep and Shiro is on the verge of tears, trying to rock his hips so that Keith’s fingers can brush over that spot again, and again, and again, and--

A mournful sound spills out of Shiro’s mouth when Keith withdraws his touch, and he immediately reaches out blindly, groping for some part of Keith to grab on to. Keith offers his clean hand, and shifts so that he can kiss Shiro again, wiping his fingers off on the side of the bed.

Pressing Shiro’s hand into the mattress, Keith drags his lips across the highest point of his cheekbone, before settling his mouth against his ear, “you still with me?”

Rocking up so that Keith can feel the _yes, I’m okay_ , where it’s pressed against his hip, Shiro hisses out an affirmation, a plea, “Yes, Keith--ah. _Come on._ ”

Keith nods, swooping in to place a messy kiss against his cheekbone, before leaning back on his heels, to reach for the box of condoms on the bedside table. Shiro props himself up on his elbows, and watches Keith with hungry eyes as Keith slicks himself up. In a few short moments, Keith is crawling back up alongside Shiro, reaching out to hold his hand again, and lining himself up. The fingers that Shiro fisted into the sheets move to tangle themselves in Keith’s hair instead, and he pulls him down so that their foreheads touch as Keith slides home, slow and sweet.

Shiro’s eyes grow wider, wider, and he tugs Keith in so that their mouths are pressed together, as well. It’s not a real kiss, but its desperate like one, Shiro opening up and huffing little breaths into Keith’s mouth while Keith settles himself, flush against Shiro.

“Everything okay, babe?”

Shiro squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, opens them again, and mutters “s’good,” into Keith’s lips.  

Reaching down between them, Keith hooks his forearm under Shiro’s leg again, and moves so that Shiro is nearly bent in half as he rocks into him. He is entirely soft, wet heat. Shiro lets out a little noise that Keith captures with a kiss, chaste and short, before he pulls out, just enough that when he rolls his hips forward, Shiro _keens_ , something high pitched and urgent.

“Yeah,” Keith murmurs, mouth tucked into the damp skin of Shiro’s neck, “I wanna hear you.”

Keith loses himself to the sounds that fall from Shiro’s lips. Loses himself to the slide of sweat-slick skin, and the fingers of Shiro’s free hand digging into the flesh of his ass, hauling him in as close as he can while he chants, “yes, there. Keith, god. _Please_ ,” with his head thrown back into a pillow.

 

***

 

A summer of Shiro.

Three months of sunshine-bright days at the beach, and late nights filled with neon lights along the boardwalk. Weeks of laughter and elbows shoved into one another’s side with wide smiles. Keith has memorized the way that Shiro’s eyes grow wide before he laughs, and crinkle up when he follows through, all fine lines around the edges.

 

***

Keith releases his hold on Shiro’s leg, and uses the hand to curl his fingers around Shiro’s length, stroking a few times, sure and quick while Shiro writhes beneath his touch.

Shiro whines, “Keith, c’mon.”

“I’ve got you,” Keith times the pull of his hand with the push of his body, the sound of skin on skin drowning out everything else, “I’ve got you, Shiro.”

 

***

 

That night in July, after they’d gotten off of the ferris wheel, Shiro had reached out to hold Keith’s hand in his own. Nothing was said of it, but it was an understanding all the same.

Shiro had bought them each an ice cream cone, and Keith had watched with wonder as a stray drop of it melted, running its way down his arm. He'd held out a napkin, in offering, but Shiro just shook his head, cleaning it up, instead, with a deft tongue that left a shiny slick trail across his forearm.

Shiro went home with that same arm wrapped around a fuzzy stuffed bear that Keith won in the ring toss.

 

***

 

Shiro comes on the tail end of a sigh, spilling warm across Keith’s hand, and wraps a hand around the back of his neck to hold him steady while he licks into his mouth. Keith’s hand is sticky, disgusting, but he sprawls it across the breadth of Shiro’s chest anyway, using it to steady himself.

Shiro breathes, “thank you,” into the empty space behind Keith’s teeth, and it sounds like a prayer.

Keith finds his own release in that invocation.

 

***

 

Keith had first realized he was in love with Shiro, just a few short days after his arrival, when he'd held out a flimsy plastic bag, grinning around lips dyed the same color as the fluffy pink cotton candy within, and asked if he’d like to go to the arcade sometime.

Keith had laughed, accepting the offering, and muttered around a mouth filled with melted sugar, “how about right now?”

 

***

 

Keith cleans Shiro up with a warm cloth and a soft touch, running his hands across the planes of the boy’s body reverently. He places kiss, after kiss, after kiss against his mouth and when it is all said and done, he lays down beside him, tucked into his side.

“I don’t want to leave,” Shiro mutters, voice thick.

Keith reaches up to run a hand through his hair, pushing it back from where it has been glued to his forehead by sweat, “I know. I don’t want you to go either.”

Shiro rolls on to his side then, turning to face him, and Keith can see where wetness has started to gather in the corner of his eyes, “what if I never see you again.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Keith promises, pulling Shiro in so that they are pressed together in one long, solid line of heat.

 

***

 

Three months of firsts for Shiro, and the one that sticks most with Keith is his quiet admission.

“What _is_ your type.”

“Not girls.”

 

***

 

Keith wakes to an empty bed, muscles cold and stiff from the morning breeze that pushes through the cracked window. There’s no note on the nightstand, the Kitchen counter, the door, anywhere, and when he sits back down on his mattress, it’s with a dull hunger in his stomach. He lets the shock wash over him for a moment, before the tears follow suit. He’s upset, yes, but, when he considers it, not surprised.

After all, Takashi Shirogane had never kissed a boy before.

**Author's Note:**

> i promise i'm sorry 
> 
> i'm available to get yelled at on both [twitter](https://twitter.com/sheithinlove) and [tumblr](http://patienceyieldslove.tumblr.com/)


End file.
